“Now then, Miss Newland,” he intones to my presented posterior. “You will receive six strokes of the cane for your disobedience, and a further two for incorrect uniform.” Not fair! I gasp, but sense that resistance will be futile. “But first, I need to address your incomplete lines. Thirty nine short. Shall we make it a round forty?”
“Forty?!” I shriek, and he chuckles slightly at the misunderstanding.
“Oh, not with the cane,” he reassures. “Just as a little entrée…a warm-up if you like. With my hand.”
My shoulders drop with relief, but not for long, because he tugs at my waistband and before I have time to think, my knickers are around my knees, stretched as tight as they will go.
“After each stroke, Miss Newland, I will require you to repeat the line. Can you remember what it is?”
Duh, can I remember? I’ve just written the bleeding thing 161 times. “I will obey Professor Sinclair’s instructions at all times,” I parrot.
“That’s right. Very well, we will begin.”
I feel erroneously blasé about the process before it begins; erroneously because my little chorus of ‘yeah, yeah, hand spanking, how bad can it be?’ shatters into a cacophony of outraged shrieks once the first mighty crack of palm against skin jolts me into the desk. I mean, ouch! I always forget how hard the man can spank without recourse to any man-made assistance.
“Oh! I will obey Professor Sinclair’s instructions at all times.” Brace, grit teeth, screw eyes tight shut. I’m going to be here for some time.
By the time the full forty have been absorbed into the heated flesh of my rump, I am presumably well-reddened and I really feel that I am suitably chastened already. Is that cane really necessary?
“I’m sorry, sir,” I pipe up hopefully. “Truly. I won’t do it again, I swear.” His hands are slowly travelling across the warm globes and I wriggle them into his touch, figuring that perhaps I can divert him into a nice desktop shag instead. He laughs and pinches the sizzling surface so that I wince.
“Nice try, Miss Newland, but brazenness will not spare you.” Abruptly his hands are withdrawn and the cane is swiped up into the air away from my face. The next thing I feel is its cold wooden length against my buttocks, pressing into the sore heat that is throbbing there already. He places it consideringly against various points along the cleft, perhaps measuring angles and distances. He seems very thorough in his task. At length his scientific study appears to be complete and he takes up position to my left, just beyond my line of vision.
“You are required to maintain your position throughout, Miss Newland, difficult as this may be. Should you try to jump up or out of the way, or touch your behind, I will have to apply the cane to your hands, which, I assure you, is even more painful. I want you to count each stroke and thank me once all eight have been administered. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I snivel.
“Are you ready?”
No, of course not! “Yes, sir,” I snivel.
He lays the cane once more in a line against the centre of my bottom, then raises it. He pauses a while, so I am caught off-guard by the low whooshing behind me and then, with a deadly wrist-flick, the rod snaps across my bum and I…oh, it doesn’t hurt…oh…yes, it bloody DOES!
“Aaaiiiieeee!” I am appalled at the vicious streak of fire that sears a line where the cane landed. Man alive! This is intolerable. I can’t possibly take even one more of these, let alone seven. Is there no way I can soften his heart? “Oh please,” I babble, “I can’t…I’m sorry. I won’t do anything like it again.”
“As ever, the first stroke brings forth an outpouring of false contrition,” says Sinclair disdainfully. “Take your punishment with dignity, Miss Newland; there is no escape, so you may as well make the best of it.”
I try to regulate my breathing, but my body will not accept that this ordeal has to continue. “But it really HURTS, Sir,” I wail.
“I know. I don’t believe I’ve heard your count yet?” He lays the horrible thing against my backside again and I quickly pipe, “One, sir.”
He taps it gently two or three times, then it is swinging upwards and I clench my flat palms into fists, biting down on one of them before the cane paints another incandescent stripe in rivalry with the first, just beneath it.
“Oooooh nooooo,” I waver, swaying and twisting and moving from one foot to the other against the all-pervading sting. “Please, please, please don’t…”
“The count, Miss Newland. If I have to remind you again, there will be additional strokes.”
“Two, sir,” I say miserably.
At the third stroke I can’t keep still any longer and I leap up to rub my poor bottom, shouting “Three, sir,” as I do so.
“Oh dear me, no, Miss Newland,” he reproves. “I warned you there would be consequences for this. This is what it takes, isn’t it, to get the message through to you?”
“I’ve got the message, sir, really I have!” I assure him urgently but he shakes his head.
“Hand,” he commands. Oh no. I hold out a shaky palm; he taps the cane against it then whips it smartly down – not from a great height, but it didn’t need to be. I howl and tuck the wounded palm into my armpit, tears springing to my eyes.
“Back down,” he says pitilessly. I begin to sob melodramatically, hoping against hope that I can make him feel guilty and relent. Ha. Fat chance. I resume my position over the desk and resign myself to five more cutting swipes before Sinclair will be satisfied I have paid the price of my misdeeds. “You understand now that disobedience from you will not be tolerated?”
“Yes, sir,” I mope.
“Good. Let us continue.” The fourth stroke catches me at a sensitive spot underneath the curve of my bottom and it takes every speck of willpower I possess not to leap up again, but somehow I succeed.
“Aaaaaaaaaah ffffffour, sir.” I pull myself back and forth over the smooth surface of the desk moaning in a low register.
“I think you’re learning,” says Sinclair sardonically.
After what seems like an age of agony, and two further strokes on the hands for leaping up twice more, Sinclair swishes the final swingeing sizzler and I can say with hysterical relief, “Eight, Sir, thank you, sir.”
My hands are throbbing and seem to have swollen to twice their normal size, my legs are wobbling hopelessly and I cannot even start to describe the pulsing pain of my rear. I am too busy shaking and trying to come to earth from a strange floaty place just above my head to think about Sinclair, but eventually I hear his breathing, slightly laboured, behind me and hear him replace the cane with its fellows. Then I remember. “Unapologetic sadist.” Now I think I finally understand what I have let myself in for. This is what Sinclair truly enjoys; the infliction of pain. He is bound to want to do it again.
He leans down over me and places his hands on my shoulders, pulling me upright and keeping hold of me in case I fall over, which is a very real possibility.
“Do you understand now, Miss Newland?” he murmurs into my ear, and I think I know what he is asking me. “Do you appreciate the true and serious consequences of your actions?”
I pause. I can say no. If I say no, he will let me go. It will all be over. I stand, swaying slightly, under his hands, my head leaning back into his shoulder, feeling his heat, his breath, almost his heartbeat. He is hanging on my answer.
“I do, sir,” I whisper. “I will behave better in future.”
He turns me round to face him, an eyebrow raised. “Honestly, Beth? You think you can live with me? Live like this?”
A strong flame of love burns fiercer than the throb of my sorry arse. I nod. He runs a hand down the side of my face, slowly and consideringly. “Thank you,” he says, barely audibly. Then he moves the hand down to my ridged, roasted backside and tests it for heat, appearing well-pleased with the results he finds. “How does that feel, Beth?” he asks, running a finger wincily across each welt.
“Oooh, it’s very sore, sir,”
I whimper, tensing my face against the sting.
“Hm, I daresay you’ll have difficulty sitting tonight,” he says thickly. Christ! That’s a point. Unless the dining chairs at the Gourmet Boat are padded in the manner of the bed in the Princess and the Pea story, I am going to have to hover half an inch off the seat all evening. How sophisticated. Could I get away with saying that it’s what everyone is doing in London these days? The thought is chased from my mind when Sinclair pulls me suddenly and roughly against him and…helloooo…something very big and extremely hard is making a cock-shaped dent in my stomach.
“Get into the bedroom,” he whispers, his teeth nipping lightly at my ear. “I want you on all fours on the bed.”
I catch my breath. “Should I undress?”
“No, keep the uniform on. Though you can lose the knickers. Go on. Now.”
I kick the unwanted underwear off on the floor and make haste to the bedroom. I can hear Sinclair tutting behind me, picking the knickers up. “Not on the bloody floor,” he grouses under his breath. Oops, forgot – compulsive neatnik, even in the heat of passion.
I must say, even with the throbbing in my bum to keep me warm, this is shaping up to be one of the better days of my life. Sex, shopping, egg sandwiches, more sex…OK, caning, but that wasn’t sooo bad, I suppose. These are a few of my favourite things – forget whiskers on kittens and warm woollen mittens.
I hum the classic Sound of Music track as I prepare to offer myself once more to my lash-happy lover. I am quite conscious of the dull internal ache below from this morning’s session and worry that he is going to hurt me, but when he enters the room, murmuring approbation at my submissive position, it seems he has plans other than the immediate conjunction of our sex organs.
He kneels beside my prostrated form and begins to rub a divinely cooling gel into my welted posterior…oh, it feels so good…oh, those fingers should win an award….
“Don’t get used to this, Beth,” he warns. “I’m only doing it because it’s your first time with the cane. If I have occasion to punish you in this manner again, I will not offer you any kind of salve.”
His words melt like kisses into my ears as he soothes on and now the sting has abated to manageable proportions and instead of feeling uncomfortable I merely feel supremely horny.
“Of course, only a very foolish and heedless young lady would misbehave seriously enough to merit a second dose of the cane, don’t you think?”
“Yes, sir,” I sigh, feeling the cold gel warmed by my hot backside and absorbed almost immediately into its furnacelike embrace.
“Good. Some arnica to avoid bruising now….and then….” Sinclair is breathing heavily through his nose. I’m pretty sure that erection hasn’t gone anywhere. He moves a couple of fingers down to the puffy entrance of my sex. “How are you feeling down here?” he asks solicitously. “Sore at all?”
“A little,” I admit, trying to move away and prevented by his hand on my back.
“Hm, well, you’re quite wet,” he observes, circling a fingertip around and around. “Perhaps a little pain on entry, but you can get through that, can’t you, Beth?”
“Oh…” I whimper as he pushes the finger further in and wiggles it inside. “I don’t know.”
“You’ll see,” he hisses, and I can hear the sounds of unbuttoning, of divesting. “I’ve spent a long time imagining this day, Beth. The day I am finally able to penetrate you after administering a punishment.” The wet tip of his cock rubs against the tender spot and I whimper again. “You can’t begin to understand how frustrating it was for me, all those times I spanked you and had to let you go. All I wanted to do was bend you back over and fuck you hard, but the time wasn’t right. It’s right now though. And I certainly intend to fulfil my modest fantasy.”
He rams himself all the way to the hilt. I squeal at the initial wincey rawness, but once that has passed, he is quite right…it feels fine. More than fine. The luscious fullness cancels out the chafing; he feels thick and wide and inescapable. I grab a handful of duvet and bury my face in its fabric-conditioned softness, pushing back on his shaft, inviting him down deeper and deeper, stretched and slick and almost split with his amazing girth. His hands slap down on my hips and he pummels me hard, fast, furious, his pelvis banging repeatedly into the sensitive sorest part of my bottom where it creases into thigh, never allowing me to forget that I am recently punished and that this is all part of the performance. Fucking at this level of frenzy is pretty hard to sustain for long, and luckily the thickness of Sinclair ensures that he stimulates my g-spot with every stroke so it is a matter of minutes before I start to yell into the cool Egyptian cotton, feeling myself utterly possessed, totally taken and I wail his name…. “Sinclaaaaair,” which – don’t know if it’s coincidence – brings him gushing and roaring and slapping into his own orgasm, his hands landing sharply on my poor bottom as he shoots.
I remain in position, head pressed down, spine sloping, arse in air when he pulls out and watches his remnants trickling down my thigh. “Don’t move for a minute,” he says from behind me. “I want to take a photograph.” God. Here I am, spanked and shagged and exhausted, and that’s his idea of a Kodak moment. Pervert. Gorgeous, sexy pervert. I hear the click and flash, then feel the mattress plunge as he throws himself down next to me.
“You aren’t putting that on the internet, are you?” I ask suspiciously.
“Of course not,” he laughs. He forces my face out of the duvet and turns it to him. He is smiling, running a fingertip over the creases left by its submersion in his quilt.
“Is this the new look, then? The Duvet Facial?”
I giggle. Oh flip, we’re supposed to be going out in a little over an hour. I just want to stay here, languishing on the bed with my masterful lover.
“Tell me you belong to me,” he purrs, close to my ear.
“I belong to you,” I oblige and his smile broadens.
“Perfect. Come on, then, my naughty little schoolgirl, up and dressed! You’ve less than an hour to make yourself presentable.”
He jumps up off the bed and commences stalking around opening wardrobes and unknotting ties. I shut my eyes and try to fall asleep, having no energy left, but am not permitted to drowse for long. I am hustled into the shower, oiled up, perfumed, dressed and made-up according to a schedule of military precision.
“Why don’t you ever do anything with your hair?” he asks me, watching me as I primp in the mirror, adding a final layer of mascara.
“Oh,” I shrug. “I don’t really get hair.”
He sweeps forward and runs his fingers through it, lifting it off my neck. My hair is somewhat heavy, poker-straight and shoulder-length, of an indeterminate brownish shade.
“You’re quite presentable when you make the effort,” he says severely. “But you hide underneath this…veil of grunge all the time. Why do young women do that?”
“Perhaps your opinion of our looks isn’t the be-all and end-all of our universe,” I retort, rather daringly, I think.
I watch his eyebrow shoot upward in the mirror. “Feisty,” he says menacingly and a shiver runs through me. Almost unconsciously, he rubs my bottom through the thin fabric of my dress, reminding me of the dynamic of our relationship. As if I could forget. My tiny whimper at the contact brings a smile to his lips.
He begins twisting and manipulating my mane and I am astonished at his skill in this area. Closet hairdresser; who’d have thought it?
“You don’t colour your hair?” he says and I snort.
“Why would I dye it this colour? Dull light brown.”
“Plenty of women would like to have this natural colour,” he insists. “Caramel…or honey…honey-caramel.” Wow, he’s so lyrical. He shoves in a couple of grips and stands back to admire his artistry. “Perfect,” he says, for the second time in an hour. “You’ll do, young lady. Come on; we can’t be late.”
In the taxi on the way, I treat him to a volley of questions.
“Will the
re be many people there? Who are they? Will they think it’s weird that I’m with you? Will they disapprove?” The answers, respectively: Eight, friends and colleagues, perhaps, who cares? Then a very pertinent, “What should I call you?”
I’ve been wondering this all day. I can’t call him ‘Sir’ or ‘Professor’ at a social gathering, surely, without raising eyebrows. But then…what can I call him? Not ‘Eliot’ – I just couldn’t!
“What do you want to call me? Within the bounds of propriety?” He smirks.
“Oh…I don’t know.”
“What was it you said earlier on? While I was making you come so hard you couldn’t move for half an hour afterwards?” I flush furiously and the cabbie tactfully turns up the radio dial.
“Jesus Christ!” I fluster.
“No, that wasn’t it,” he says smoothly. “Though you’d be forgiven…”
“Sinclair!”
“Yes. Call me that. Lots of people do. Most people, in fact. It won’t be remarked upon.”
*
We are exactly punctual – another of Sinclair’s little control-freak quirks – and take our places at an extravagantly dressed table, almost collapsing beneath the weight of all the floral arrangements and fine silverware. Sinclair sits opposite me at the end of the table, and I find myself beside a tall, rangy man with alert brown eyes and a roguish grin. The roguish grin makes its debut appearance as I move to sit and then remember too late how ferociously sore my arse is.
“Good aaaaaaahvening,” I say in response to his greeting. He chuckles and introduces himself as Rob. His wife, Mel, is sitting next to Sinclair across the table, a thin-lipped efficient-looking brunette.
“Very good friends of mine,” nods Sinclair without elaborating. Good friends in what sense, I’m wondering. Colleagues? Schoolfriends? Ex-lovers?
“How did you meet?” I ask lightly. There is a beat of silence.
“It was through me,” offers Mel, unsmiling. “I was working with Sinclair…we were having a not-very-serious relationship. Then we both met Rob at…a party.”
Lecture Notes Page 11
